


Best Served Cold

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alex and Hamish are university aged, Alex kills and hurts people, Angst, Character Death, Gun Violence, Headcanon heavy for Hamish and Alex, I haven't watched season 3 yet and don't know when I will, I may look up things to try and stay canon, I suppose that counts, John and Sherlock are dead by the beginning of the first chapter, Knife Violence, Language, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Sexual Content, Murder Mystery, No graphic sex scenes, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Sexual Situations, They swear from time to time, Violence, but probably not for the most part, hamex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4606899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strained relationship with his parents had Hamish looking toward the states to finish the last few years of his university, but near the end of the first semester there he gets a chilling call from his uncle.  His parents are dead.  Now Hamish wants to know who is responsible and put them down.  During his research he finds Alexander Moran-Moriarty, the son of the two most dangerous men in London and an unexpected ally.  Together they must work together to find those responsible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Served Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, unbritpicked. Written on my tablet in Evernote, so it's likely to have mistakes, both spelling and grammar.
> 
> *Tries to claw my way out of writing block hell* Please help.
> 
> I haven't had inspiration to write my ongoing Johnlock fic, but I've been coming up with ideas after ideas for Hamex fics. Probably because that's all I've been email RPing lately. I'm hoping that writing this will help me start writing that one once again because I want to finish it how I see the ending. (That's just getting hard as well because I RP as Sebastian in my RPs and he's a really chill, nice dad.) We'll see how this goes.

Hamish ignored the missed calls at first.  Saw Lestrade's name on the caller ID and just knew it had to be him calling to complain about his father again.  Usually he was up to complaining with the detective, but now he's out of the country, making his own life in the States, trying to get through school on his first year abroad.  It had taken a few years in university, but he found living with his parents just wasn't working out when nothing but uncomfortable silence and awkward conversations awaited him after classes.  So he moved out.  And traveled across the ocean.  He hadn't spoken to his parents since his call upon moving in successfully, letting his dad know that he didn't need any money wired into his account.

And then Hamish got a call from Mycroft during class.  His uncle never called if it wasn't an emergency.  Never.  Only showed up in a black SUV to whisk him away to some unknown location for a quick chat, usually about Sherlock.  When he saw Mycroft's call come in, the notification about Lestrade's calls still up at the top, he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, throat too dry to swallow.  He stood, gathered his things, and left the classroom to take the call, not matter how much he didn't want to.

"Your parents have been in a fatal car accident."

There was a tremor in Mycroft's voice.  Easy to miss if you didn't know the man, didn't know how far his concern and love went for his younger brother.  Hamish hung up on him.  He didn't know why, what it would accomplish.  It only pushed back the inevitable.  Mycroft didn't call back.  Really, he didn't have to.  Hamish knew what he had to do.  That he had to return home, had to see them for himself, lower their bodies into the ground.  He wasn't close to them, hadn't been for years after situations set them apart.  He couldn't even remember the last time he had told them he loved them, despite their differences.

Hamish walked back to his dorm room, not one sound out of him, and started to pack his things.

\---

London was louder than he remembered.  Sure, Seattle had its noise as well, but this was different.  It was home.  Lestrade met him at 221 Baker Street, dark shadows under his eyes and his hair a mess from running his hands through it too often.  For all the complaints and yelling he had done about Sherlock, it was evident the man had truly cared for him no matter how often the younger man stole his badge or gotten him in trouble. The older man opened his mouth to say something, but let the thought die in his throat and just gave a small cough instead, hand going through his hair again.

Hamish unlocked the front door of the building for them, stepping inside the front hallway.  He glanced over at the door of Mrs. Hudson's flat.  He still remembered her funeral during his first year of secondary school clearly.  Molly had cried enough for all of them, though she had known the woman the least out of the rest of the attendants.  Hamish hoped she didn't do the same at his parents funeral, but knew it was pointless to hope for that.  The woman had helped Sherlock and John on countless cases and had been a close friend to both.  The front door shut behind Lestrade and Hamish blinked, looking away from the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat and back toward the task at hand.  Lestrade didn't speak until they got up to his parent's flat, the inside almost the same as when Hamish had left the country, just a bit more cluttered from the case they had been on.

"I'm sorry."

Hamish glanced over at the detective, "Why?  It's not as though you were in the other car."

"I know, I just-" he brushed his hair back once more, "I wish I could have done something, kept him just one more minute in my office before he and John raced off out of the city."

"There was nothing you could have done.  They were going to die that day no matter what."  He glanced over the room again, going to pick up the case folder.

"What makes you say that?"

"A crash like that, leading to a closed casket funeral?  Those types of accidents don't just accidentally happen to people like my parents."

Lestrade made a strange face and Hamish knew the man wanted to argue against that, but was relieved when the man let the subject drop for the meantime.  He took the moment of silence to open the folder and flip through the police notes.

"Mind if I keep this.  Just until the case is solved?"  Hamish asked.

"No, no, go ahead.  And if you figure it out, please let us know so we can catch the killer.  And if it's like you said- if they maybe had something to do with this... don't go after them."

Hamish gave no indication that he had heard the man, feigning great interest in the papers before him.  The door clicked softly behind Lestrade as he left him alone.  He set the folder back down with a sigh, glancing over at the skull sitting on the mantle, mocking him with its empty eyes and permanent smile.  He moved over and turned the skull to face away from him before facing the mess in the flat.

He sifted through the papers, recognizing his father's messy scrawl written on them.  His notes.  Hamish grabbed all of the ones he could find and went to the table, which was somewhat cleared off, probably due to the insistence of his dad saying they at least needed one place where they could sit comfortably.  Hamish could still remember small arguments like that from back when he still lived here.

Slowly, he began looking through the notes, putting them in what he considered their chronological order due to the new advances in the case.  Hours passed as he poured over the words, trying to get some sense of it.  He almost didn't hear when Mycroft entered, only glancing up when a bag of food was set down in front of him.  Hamish glanced up at his uncle, who was dressed up as usual, face almost unreadable.

"So you're back in the city."

"I'm sure you got a notice as soon as I bought a plane ticket, so don't act as though I should have told you."

"I presume you're dropping out of school for the meantime?"

"Yes, I told them of my family emergency and they let me take my finals a couple weeks early and I passed them easily, but I'm taking off next semester.  Just need to send in the last of the homework."

"Understandable.  Take the time you need."  He started unpacking the food, setting the containers down with some utensils to eat, "I know you've been looking at these notes since you arrived.  I called to Lestrade before making my way here.  My people are working 24/7 to see if there's any connection between the case and the accident.  You can rest for now.  Eat."

"None of your people are me," Hamish said, but slid the papers to the side, stomach taking that moment to remind him how hungry he actually was at that moment.  Mycroft slid him his container and he opened it up, grabbing a fork from the pile of plastic utensils.  He had the decency to wait until Mycroft situated himself before starting to eat.  They both sat there in silence, eating their food, Sherlock's notes spread over the table between them.  Hamish wondered momentarily what this was like for Mycroft.  It wasn't the first time he'd had to go through his brother's death, only this time he knew it was permanent.  The older man had looked a bit worn, but kept his stature straight and shoulders back.

When they finished, Mycroft stood and cleaned up the trash, throwing it away.  Once the place in front of him was cleared, Hamish pulled the notes back toward himself to study them closely once more, the noises of Mycroft moving around the flat turning into nothing but background noise, unimportant.  He lost track of what Mycroft was doing in the room, not wanting to watch the man wander, looking over his brother's items.  Only when the older man came over and pressed a comforting hand against his shoulder blades did he look up.

"You have my number.  Call me if you need anything."  With that he left, leaving Hamish back in the silence of his thoughts and the notes of his father.  He let out a soft sigh and went back to work.

So far they had been useless, quick thoughts that Sherlock had had and written down to compile them all together.  Obviously the ideas had helped as they had gotten too close and paid the price.  Either that or the person on the other end had felt threatened from the beginning just by hearing Sherlock Holmes's name and had just decided to get rid of him as soon as possible.  Whatever the reason, Hamish was hoping the later notes were more useful because Hamish was going to find them and kill them.

\--

Nothing.  There was nothing, as far as Hamish could tell.  Nothing extremely important and groundbreaking in the case.  He sighed and set aside the last page of notes and got up to stretch.  Night had fallen and his internal clock was hours off.  Exhaustion clawed at his eyes and limbs as he hadn't even bothered to sleep on the plane trips over, but he couldn't stop now.  Not until he found something.  Back to the mess, he shifted through the papers of research, finding some old case files his father hadn't bothered returning to Lestrade and obviously the older man didn't care enough to ask for them back.

Hamish flopped down on the now cleared sofa with a sigh, glancing up at the wall above the fireplace, where his father had tacked up momentos and notes from previous cases around the mirror.  The Cluedo game was still stabbed into the wall above the skull, which now grinned at Hamish with its reflection.  He got up, unreasonably frustrated with the bones and picked it up, fully intending to throw it in the rubbish bin when he spotted a note of paper tightly rolled up inside of it, almost completely tucked out of sight.

He set the skull down and went to the bathroom, grabbing his dad's medical kit and pulling out the tweezers.  He didn't know what to expect of his father, what he tucked away inside the skull, hidden from everything but a keen gaze, but he just hoped it was important, a clue for the current case, a location for Hamish to go to for more information, even just name would be nice at this point.  He gently pulled it out.  Immediately he could tell the paper was older than the others, written on a different type of paper as well.  He went back to the table, intending to unroll it and set things down on the edges to keep it flat, but stopped halfway there.

It was a shopping list.  A bloody shopping list.  Most of it was in his dad's hand, but his father had added some scribbles near the bottom of it.  He read over Sherlock's addition, tilting his head at the absurdity of the items, but eventually it clicked.  Hamish went to go grab a pen and paper, hoping he was right as he copied down what Sherlock wrote into his more legible writing.  It looked coded, if felt coded, but Hamish didn't have the key for it.  He sat down to get to work on it, hoping he wasn't being led to another dead end.

It wasn't until morning that Hamish had managed to coax what looked like an address from the items on the shopping list.  He was tired and hungry, but felt as though he was finally getting somewhere.  He tucked his notes and the original list into his pocket and went to go find his dad's backup gun, smiling when he found it in the exact same spot he used to keep it years ago.  He hid it away on his person, ready to use it if he found himself in a tight spot, and headed out to catch a cab.

In his hurry, he hadn't noticed the weather, a drizzle that turned into a downpour while he was in the cab, dusting off his mental map of London.  He paid upon arrival and quickly ran under an overhang to get out of the rain and and look over the building.  Hamish was in a rich part of town.  He knew a flat here was giant compared to back home.  Whoever was at this end of the address had life good.  Hamish smoothed his hair down and rain back out into the rain to get to the front door.  He knocked on it and waited, pulling his jacket closer to himself as he waited.  After a bit, he knocked again, but there was no reply.

Hamish glanced around, seeing if there was anyone around, but most people had run off due to the rain, seeking shelter inside their homes or a cab.  With the coast clear, he pulled out his lock picking kit and crouched down to get to work.  It took a bit longer than usual, the locks were trickier than most, but he eventually managed to hear that satisfying click as he unlocked it, quickly getting up and opening the door, stepping out of the rain.  He listened to the quiet building as he locked the door behind him, moving further inside.  The security on the door may have been good, but it didn't seem as though they had an actually security system.

He glanced inside the first room on the ground floor, but it held nothing of interest, just a decorative reception room, not looking like it was used very often.  After that was a study room and a restroom was down the hall from the entrance, mostly unlived in besides a towel hung on the wall and some soap by the sink.  Hamish made his way to the stairs, looking toward the lower ground floor and brushing his wet hair back from his forehead.  He went down the stairs and glanced around.  There was an unused bedroom, sitting room, and another bathroom as well as a door outside to a backyard.  He turned back and went up the stairs, making his way past the ground floor and up toward the first floor. There were more stairs leading up to a second floor, but he stopped to check this one out first.

The first floor looked more lived in and Hamish immediately started looking for clues as to who could live in this place.  Even though this part of the house looked more worn in, the inhabitant was very neat and tidy, no dust in sight.  Even the items in the fridge where carefully ordered inside.  The place was very modern looking, no wasted space or thought, the sitting room and kitchen flowing and combining into one room, yet still set apart by an island counter.  Everything looked to be some of the newest items on the market, from the fridge to the stove, and the washer and dryer tucked away in a closet in the hallway leading down to the bedroom.  Whoever lived here liked to be organized, to know where things were, be a step ahead.  They liked control.

That was Hamish's conclusion until he reached the bedroom.  It was as though he had stepped into a different flat.  He stood in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, as he stared into the room.  The bed was unmade, the books in the bookcase looked to be organized by however the person felt that day with some right side up, others on their side, some clothes was thrown over the back of a chair, and there were a couple collectibles figures.  Video game and comic book characters, as far as Hamish could tell.  They kept the rest of the place neat and in control, but let themselves relax in their bedroom.  They felt comfortable and at home in this room.

There was a click of a pistol being racked behind Hamish and he felt his blood run cold, knowing he couldn't reach for his own gun in time without getting a hole shot in him.  He stayed as he was, but put his hands up a bit to show they were empty, not wanting to be perceived as a threat, though the fact that he had broken into their flat probably wasn't earning him any points.

"Back out of the room, get in front of the wall.  Lower your hands or make any movement as though you're going to resist and you're getting a bullet in your knee," came a gruff growl from behind him.  Hamish did as he was told, knowing he'd have to wait for the perfect moment to take them down.  He heard the person, definitely male, come up behind him, and mentally cursed when they started patting him down, quickly finding the gun.  The man behind him tsked as they pulled it out and tucked it away on their own body before continuing it.  They found the notes as well, pulling those out.

"Why are you here?  Did you honestly think you could kill me?  Do you know how many others have tried before you and failed?  You're new, inexperienced.  Didn't even check to see if I had put any unconventional security measures in place.  And... what is this?"  There was a rustling sound as he looked over the papers he had taken off of Hamish, "Is this... a shopping list with my address coded into it?  Where the hell did you get this?  Who the hell are you?"

"You talk a lot for a tough guy," Hamish started, "And I got that shopping list from the skull in my parent's front room."

That got the man behind him to shut up for a few seconds.

"From a skull."

"Yes."

"In your parent's flat."

"Yes."

"Why do your parents have a skull in their flat?"

Hamish almost turned to look at the other man at the absurdity of all this, but restrained himself, "That's the question you want to know the answer to?"

"No, it's one of many.  But it's one of the less important ones."  The paper were flung to the side and a hand was roughly grabbing Hamish's arm and spinning him around before slamming him back up against the wall.  The gun was pressed against his stomach as the man leaned in, eyes narrowing as he looked him over.  "I am not going to ask you this again.  Who are you and what do you want?"

Finally Hamish got a good look at him.  Blond hair kept in a messy military cut, green eyes, a bit of stubble, not yet shaved.  Behind them on the table was a bag of groceries and Hamish was surprised the man had managed to sneak up on him with that in hand.  He had to be a professional hitman or someone with a familiar line of work.  His hand that was holding the gun was steady, almost caressing the deadly weapon with a sense of familiarity much like someone normal would comfortably hold something like a pencil or phone.  And he looked eerily familiar.  Not like they had met before familiar, but as though he'd seen someone who looked similar to him. That thought crossed his mind just as the other man got a flicker of recognition in his own eyes as well, tilting his head as he continued to look Hamish over.  Hamish regarded him the same way until they both asked at the exact moment.

"Do I know you?"


End file.
